


Many More

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-09
Updated: 2008-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:43:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moment sneaks up on him, just like it always does, its significance obscured by the work of his hands – cable to crystal; a four-digit code; override the secondary protocols to allow new input ; five-digit; four-digit; five-digit – then he's done, pivoting in his chair, fingers wrapping wiring around his datapad because, oh, right, neatness always helps stave off death. "You're good to go."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many More

**Author's Note:**

> Almost all dialogue taken directly from the show.

The moment sneaks up on him, just like it always does, its significance obscured by the work of his hands – cable to crystal; a four-digit code; override the secondary protocols to allow new input ; five-digit; four-digit; five-digit – then he's done, pivoting in his chair, fingers wrapping wiring around his datapad because, oh, right, _neatness_ always helps stave off death. "You're good to go."

John nods. "Make sure that strike team's ready to move as soon as that field drops."

"I will. And you make sure you don't accelerate too fast coming out of the Jumper bay. I mean, if you hit the gas too hard, you're gonna flatten like a pancake." _Ouch_. Rodney bites back a wince.

"Right." John's looking at the console but not _looking_ at it – Rodney knows the difference – and his face is laid wide open, blank of arrogance and irritation and every other frustrating marker of faith Rodney's learned to navigate. Which is why it hits: that they're fucked, John on point, and though for a second he feels it like so much indigestion, his capacity for self-denial isn't what it once was, and he's left with an ugly mess of uninvited thoughts crowding his throat. He hates this part – hates it for its own special hate-worthy hatefulness, but hates it because he knows it too well, can trust his body to do what it always does and, right on cue, his eyes widen to let him see fractionally more of what he might not see again.

John looks up. "What?"

"Well it's just, I'm, that what you're about to do is . . ."

"Yeah. Well, it's not like it's the first time. How many suicide missions have I flown?"

"I don't know, I've lost count." It feels bitterly ridiculous to say it out loud.

"Right, well there you go."

John offers it like it's explanation enough, like the words more than suffice, and Rodney has to concede it's all they have – it's all they've ever had – and stands. "All right, well, you know." He dusts his palm on his pants, offers John his handshake. "Here's to many more."

He wasn't expecting the axis of the planet to tilt as the next order of business – explosions, perhaps, new intel; hell, a friendly fly-by from a Wraith hive would be par for the course – but he's especially unprepared for his next two realizations that smack into the back of his brain: one, that the way John hesitates to clasp his hand is probably the greatest fucking declaration of affection Rodney will see from him in this life, however long that turns out to be; and two, would you credit it, they're about to fucking kiss. He's going to pull John up, he can feel the energy of it, or let John pull him down, he can feel the energy of that, and it'll be awkward and clumsy and someone's going to jam and elbow or a knee, but he _knows_ it, suddenly, and it's so fucking predictable that one or the other of them would be _suicidal_ before they'd get to this place, and fuck, if his hand betrays him, starts to shake . . .

His headset crackles. "Rodney?"

 _Jesus_. "Yeah, Radek, go ahead." He scrambles for his radio, notices from the corner of his eye that John's hand hovers, empty, above the console for a moment before he lays it down. But then there's a new plan – because he's just that good – involving flight and words and DHDs , the backwash from the event horizon and the great unwritten rule of the gateroom: don't park the Jumpers there, son. The whole crazy arc of it's held together with gum and string and a couple of soda cans, but hey, maybe today no one has to die, especially through high-speed collision with the Tower they only just fucking _fixed_ , and if Rodney's right hand keeps closing in on itself while John's grabbing for guns and flashlights and giving out new orders, at least they get to not talk about now or tomorrow, and that's something they absolutely know how to do.

"You're going to fly it. Frees me up to lead the strike team," John says, and there's relief beneath all the authority he's mustering. "You said it yourself, simple enough, you just dial the gate."

Rodney swallows. "I guess I can do that."

"Go easy on the accelerator," John says, and his voice has dropped, as if something new's weighing down his words even as he's giving Radek another order, grabbing his gun, heading out.

"I guess I can . . ." Rodney blinks, shakes his head to clear the fog a little, blinks again when John comes back.

"And, you know, 'cause I think this was – " John's edgy and jerks one shoulder as if the gesture's punctuation, " – we were . . . that wasn't just me, you know it, don't even try to – " And he grabs Rodney by the front of his jacket, hauls him in and kisses him hard, damp lips and stubble pressing gracelessly against Rodney's own before he lets him go, nods and ducks his head to his radio. "Lorne, on my mark . . ."

Rodney stares into empty space as John's footsteps pound away again. "Asshole," he yells when he gets his bearings, slamming a fist against the mechanism that closes the rear hatch. "You're an asshole, Sheppard!"

"Just fly the goddamn Jumper," comes his radio'd reply, and Rodney sits and swears colorfully as he powers up the console, mostly for the luxury of cursing out the manhood of a guy whose manhood it ends up he's interested in.

"Bay doors opening," he reports, and lets himself crack a smile.


End file.
